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CoS 46.1 (intermission)
🕑 Added 2025-11-17 20:13:11 +0000 UTC21 BBY
It was the height of Winter in Harnaiden, the largest city on the planet of Muunilinst. The average Muun was too wealthy to concern themselves with menial labour, the only souls on the streets were droids or unlucky alien servants.
The Sith of old did not concern themselves with such small things. They were warrior cultures. Fierce, proud, and even with their own strange sense of honor. Some of them were adept at playing their political games, others were even brilliant researchers and scientists in their own right, but none of them could ever conceive of things like markets, chairmen, and quarterly reviews. The movements of servile people didn't concern them unless they were a spy, especially when all their focus was on their rivals and the hated jedi. They saw it as petty, beneath them, when in reality they had it completely backwards.
It was credits that made war possible, the great unseen tide rolling under the surface of the Galaxy, in and out, crushing what it willed and receding as it pleased. Ships, generals, and combat were all a product of power, not a source of it. He watched the moving tides, intervening where necessary, but mostly he would ride the wave rather than control it.
Today he was the tide.
His communicator buzzed with a simple message. First fish caught, second one got away.
It would have been disappointing, if it wasn’t for the report coming over Coruscant News Network. A corpulent Neimodian, seated at what looked like the end of a hotel bed on Zyggerria was giving an interview.
“-Complete destruction, that’s right. The entire Zyggerian Fleet has been captured, scuttled, or destroyed.”
It seemed that Tan’ya hadn’t learned the news yet, but no matter. Hego checked his short positions, and smirked to himself as they began to rise in value. The Trade Federation was the creation of a number of companies headquartered in the Corporate Sector. Those companies were publicly traded, and so by shorting those, Hego had already begun his attack on the Federation.
He sent a quick message to his broker, its contents short and to the point. “Short more Federation stocks.”
Many financial matters went over the heads of the public, as they should. The exact nature of shorting a stock wasn’t something the common being understood, and he didn’t need to. All he needed to know was that shorting a stock meant selling it, and once enough people began selling a stock, it led to a race to the bottom. More and more investors rushed to sell their stocks while it still had value, which reduced the value of those stocks, driving more people to sell while they still could. It was like an avalanche, a layer of snow perched at a precarious point, needing only a small push to dump thousands and thousands of tons of ice on those below.
The Federation had been facing hard times for a while, but today it had received two crippling blows. The Battle at Zygerria was known about now, but it wouldn’t be too long until the whole Galaxy heard about the destruction of the Hypermatter Reserves. Already, Hego was setting a trend, as dozens of magisters in the Banking Clan followed his lead, shorting Federation companies. Hego watched in real time, as Federation stock prices continually declined throughout the day, but not at the rate that he had expected. It wasn’t an avalanche, it was a trickle, one that only picked up a small amount of speed as the day continued. Even when news of the Strategic Reserve broke, and the news channels were filled with howls of outrage, that decline in share prices continued to slow, until finally it stopped.
Hego stared, mind calculating, and realised that the Trade Federation wasn’t the only one under attack. Shorting a stock could be risky, as you had to actively spend money to maintain your short position. The longer the short lasted, the more costly it became.
But Hego was already committed. He could pull out now and make a small profit, but he would lose the chance afterwards.
He called his broker. “Someone’s buying the stocks.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.
A human voice over the other end answered. “Yes. Right after we started shorting, a team of brokers came in and started buying as many as they could. They outright bullied the people who were trying to sell, surrounding and filling their ears with warnings they would lose everything if they kept at it. They tried it on me, but I stuck to my guns, sir.” He quickly corrected it. “Your guns.”
“And who were those brokers affiliated with?”
“Tahm Sipas.”
Ah, of course. Hego’s long time rival among the Core Five, and Sidious’s latest catspaw.
Hego took a long drag on his pipe, staring out the window at the clouds of food delivery droids that went about their day, not seeing the war playing out in the offices all around them.
“You want me to ditch these shorts, sir? Might not be the big return you were hoping for, but it will still be a tidy profit.”
“...No.” Hego answered. “Hold onto them for now.”
“Alrighty. Don’t worry sir, war’s still young yet. Plenty of time for things to ripen.” Then he hung up on his end.
Hego was under attack, and now he knew who held the dagger. “Oh, Sidious, my young friend. To imagine that I ever believed you could share anything.”
----
Grib Siv was in an emergency board meeting, one that he called, but he kept checking his compad anyway. The stocks were stabilising. Slowly, but steadily, their value was beginning to recover.
He breathed out, feeling his pulse slowly returning to normal. As he did, the other members of the board all glanced at each other, hanging with baited breath for his pronouncement. “Good news. Our stock prices are stabilised, my contact was able to pull through for us.”
The exhalation across the room was audible, as the various old toads all slumped in their seats, tension leaving their bodies. The whole room stank of exhaustion and old men.
“I thought the Senate wasn’t going to bail us out, anymore.” Neeg mumbled, rubbing at his tired eyes.
“It isn’t.” Grib grunted. “But my friend called in a favor.”
“What kind of hold do you have on him?” Himera demanded, one of the fattest neimoidians grib had ever met.
Grib grunted, rather than answering, rising to his feet. “Alright. Now that emergency has been addressed-”
“Oh, no.” Neeg groaned. “I forgot that wasn’t what this meeting was even about.”
Grib seethed, but he kept his temper reigned in for the moment. The emergency meeting had been called to deal with the fuel shortage crisis. He hadn’t even finished explaining the problem to the other board members, when word reached them about the disastrous battle at Zygerria, and Federation stocks began to plummet. After that they each spent hours, utilising any and every contact they could trying to plug holes in the leaky life support, buying every stock they could as soon as it appeared on the market, and twisting the arms of various contacts to do the same.
Somewhere in between all that, he had managed to consolidate every warship still inside the Corporate Sector at either Olsumpex, or Cadomai. The ships at Cadomai would prevent further attacks from the Hydian, and once the fleet at Olsumpex finished consolidating their fuel reserves, they would retake Zygerria. There had been five and a half thousand war ships in the Corporate Sector before the defeat at Zygerria, but now there were just four thousand, and he doubted he had enough fuel for all of those.
One and a half thousand ships had been lost at Zygerria. Not a single one had escaped, which was almost certainly due to those strange new support ships the Alliance fleets had gotten from who knows where. Grib highly doubted that the shipyards at Botajef had innovated the technology to produce those prototypes, its ports were centuries old and quite a bit behind the times generally. Wherever they came from, they could prevent every ship in an entire system from entering or leaving Hyper Space. Retreating and regrouping became impossible. The Serenno House Fleet had used one at Cadomai to ambush the Bonadon Patrol Fleet.
Whatever they were, they had permanently changed galactic warfare. Grib wasn’t a great military mind, but he recognised that much. Any hyperlane could become a death trap with those things, as any fleet could find itself ripped out of Hyperspace and surrounded by enemy ships.
Where the hell had they come from?
Ah, he had more important things to focus on.
“How do we resolve our fuel problem, gentleman?” Grib queried the room. “We can’t import fuel from the rest of the Galaxy, and we can’t produce enough of our own to sustain our fleets. Do we need to start requisitioning civilian fuel supplies?”
Neeg swallowed audibly, trying to speak, but his throat was too parched and all that came out was a croak. He quickly poured himself some water and took a loud slurp past his thin, quivering lips, before finally he was able to speak. In a quivering, fearful voice. “Grib. We can’t requisition civilian fuel. From a legal perspective, it’s just not possible under our corporate code without a declaration of emergency.”
“Which we are not doing.” Grib said firmly. “But we can go outside the Corporate Code. We can send scalpers-”
Himera shook his head, terrified. “No, no. Grib, I understand we need the fuel, but we can’t even operate agriculture without our fuel. Imagine a famine inside the Corporate Sector, because we can’t move food from one planet in Bonadon to another? Imagine what that would do to our share prices if it got out?”
Vinwe nodded furiously, scattering skin flakes from his scalp everywhere. “Exactly. Grib, it’s just not possible.”
Grib hated to agree with the council of fools, but on this one he suspected they were probably right. Besides, the last thing he needed was civilians trying to flee the Sector to escape his requisition teams. “Fine. So we consolidate our current fuel supplies into the fleets at Olsumpex and Cadomai. How many working ships does that leave us with?”
They all looked at each other, unsure. One of them, a younger board member named Sinjh, got out his compad and began typing. “Assuming that each ship still has somewhere between sixty and eighty percent of its fuel reserves in their hoppers, we’ll be able to operate somewhere between two thousand four hundred, and three thousand ships. The rest will have to be mothballed.”
Grib clenched his jaw so hard he worried his teeth might crack. “So, even in the best case scenario, today we’re being defended by less than three fifths of the ships we were at this same time yesterday?”
There was a long pause, broken by Neegs whimpering, “Andhlo was right.”
“What was that?!” Grib snarled at him, and the man flinched.
“But he was!” Neegs pleaded. “We weren’t ready for war! Our fleets weren’t in a state of readiness, and they’re not being led by the right man.”
There were nods of agreement around the table, that stopped as Grib stared them all down one by one. Still, none of them seemed to change their mind. After all, Andhlo had been proven correct. They weren’t prepared for war, and no amount of Grib bullying and cajoling them would change that.
“Perhaps… Perhaps we should ask Andhlo to come back?” Neegs suggested.
“Too late for that, I’m afraid.” Grib grunted, falling back down into his chair. “He committed suicide. They found him overdosed in his home office just a few days ago.”
They all stared at him.
“Was it suicide?” Vinwe asked. “Or… ‘Suicide’?” He repeated, but this time he made finger quotes.
“What kind of a savage do you think I am?” Grib growled at him. Rather than wait for the answer, he reached under his desk and took out a number of glasses, along with an expensive bottle of whiskey. He pretended to not notice the fearful way they all exchanged glances with each other. “Still, even if he isn’t with us anymore, we can re-examine his plan.”
None of the others seemed eager to stick their necks out after learning about their friend’s fate, so Grib got started. “Before this war started, half our fleet was already outside the Corporate Sector. They’ll still be able to buy fuel on the market, and they can do so on credit under our name. The problem is they’re all scattered across the Galaxy. Easily picked off in isolation. We’ll need to gather them up somewhere, and then once we’ve got an armada large enough it can’t possibly be defeated, crush Botajef and Raxus.”
Finally following his directions, Himera glanced at his friends, before saying, “We’ll need to appoint an overall fleet commander.” Then he looked at Grib, “You can’t micromanage a fleet from the other side of the Galaxy, Siv.”
Grib froze at that, and glared at the fat neimodian. He took a long drink of his liquor, “You think I don’t already know that!” He snarled and slammed his cup down. “ After what happened at Zygerria it is clear that most of our field commanders are incompetent, and it is up to me to find the right sentient for the job.”
“Calm down, Grib. We all make mistakes.” Neeg consoled.
Grib grunted, bitterly, pouring himself another glass.
Neeg took a glass for himself, and poured his own shot when Grib didn’t do it for him. After swallowing a mouthful of the stuff, he coughed and wiped at his lips. “But listen, Grib, we’re actually in luck.”
“Oh?”
“Don’t you remember? Andhlo’s plan called for a new commander of the Reformed Fleet. Grievous? Remember?”
Grib did remember. After that incident he took the time to look Grievous up, and had mixed feelings about what he’d read.
The general’s real name was Qymaen jai Sheelal, Grievous was just some kind of cultural moniker. He was born a backworld savage, fighting with a primitive slug thrower. When his barbarian world was invaded by the more advanced Yam’rii, he united his people in bloody conquest, and drove the enemy out completely. Not even satisfied with that, he cobbled together a fleet of captured enemy ships and secondhand vessels purchased from the black market, and launched an invasion of the Yam’rii’s Home System. After utterly destroying every single Yam’rii colony, he then launched an invasion of the Yam’rii homeworld and damn near conquered it. A complete reversal, carried out by a technological primitive, a feat unheard of anywhere else in Galactic history.
By the time Republic Judiciary Forces finally intervened to put an end to the conflict, Grievous was organising a campaign of complete genocide against his enemies, sparing neither nesting famales or larvae. Despite it being the Yam’ree who had started the conflict, Grievous and the Kaleesh were defeated by the Jedi, and forced to pay reparations to their foe. After decades of devastating war, and the creation of an incredibly expensive fleet, Kaleesh was utterly bankrupt and wracked with poverty and starvation. In desperation, Grievous joined up with a Trade Federation subsidiary to begin paying back his people’s crippling debts.
No doubt the man was a military genius, but he was also a complete maniac. Grib swirled the liquor in his glass, staring at his own reflection. The kind of frightening potential Grievous possessed left Grib feeling… concerned. Controlling the primitive was going to be hard enough, but his capacity to learn new technologies, new strategies, new methods of war… It was a kind of aptitude that was frightening to consider. What happened when Grievous decided he should be in charge of the Trade Federation? Would Grib have any chance of outmaneuvering him?
Giving Grievous control over the Reformed Fleet was a gamble. There was no doubt that if anyone was up to the task of breaking the Alliance, it was him, but what happened once that enemy was defeated?
“What do you think, Grib?” Himera pressed. “Do you think Grievous is our man?”
“The other commanders won’t like it.” Grib pointed out. “They won’t want to take commands from an alien.”
“We’re talking about saving the Federation, here.” Himera replied, folding his hammy arms on top of his bloated belly. “They’ll have to live with our decision, or we’ll relieve them of command. Besides, I can’t think of anyone better?”
Grib couldn’t. He looked up from his drink and surveyed the men in the room, weighing his choices. Would these fools try to promote an alien over him when the time came? Who was he kidding, of course they would. These corpulent toads would fold at a stiff breeze, let alone a barbarian warlord.
In the end, Grib’s only real assurance was his Master. He was in place because greater powers desired for him to be there, and those greater powers wouldn’t choose Grievous over him, not when he was a rank outsider. Perhaps his Master would seek to initiate the primitive, and if that ever happened, Grib would be in a lot of trouble. For now, as long as he kept a close watch on Grievous, just in case he made any unexpected trips to Sojourn, Grib should be okay. In the end, what the Master really wanted was results, and he wouldn’t care who Grib used to get them.
“Fine.” Grib glanced at his other chairmen. “Do we all agree to this? I don’t want anyone whining that they had objections three months from now if this turns out to be a disaster?”
There were nods and hums of agreement all around the room.
“Alright we’ll set up an interview- Actually, we’re all assembled anyway, and this is an emergency meeting, isn’t it? Then let’s just call him now and get this ship underway.” Feeling impatient, he sat up and grabbed his holocom. He quickly called his assistant, who then forwarded him to General Grievous after confirming that the General wasn’t currently on assignment.
The holocom rang dozens of times before it was picked up. When the Kaleesh finally answered it took Grib a moment to register what he was looking at. The alien reptile was completely naked, his misshapen sex organs shamelessly exposed, alongside the sagging skin that came with age. His only concession to modesty was a bone white mask that covered his face, his tusks jutting out from beneath it. In the General’s hand was a simple carving knife as he worked on a little ball of wood. He was flicking chips and flecks of sawdust into the embers of a campfire as he carved something. The holocom he was using must have been held by an assistant droid, perhaps an astro mech, because caught in the display was a handful of other kaleesh women, moving about at the edge of the scene and talking to each other softly in their jabbering tongue.
Grib clenched his jaw. “General, this is a business call. Get dressed.”
“I’m fine.” Grievous answered with a dismissive flick of his chin.
“...General, I understand this call was on short notice, but this complete disregard for common decency is a violation of the code of conduct in your contract and has no place before myself, along with Director Neeg, head of our legal department, Director Himera, and Director Vinwe. I demand you put some clothes on.”
With a frustrated clucking sound from somewhere in the back of his throat, Grievous called out in his alien jabber, and after a few moments a female Kaleesh, with her head, face, and body covered by intricate robes, came over. For him she held out a robe made from animal fur, and Grievous slid his shoulders into the sleeves, and stood at his full two metres height while she cinched the belt at the waist with a simple knot. Then the general finally sat down and resumed his carving.
“You called me at my home.” Grievous rumbled, and pointed with his finger at the board of directors. “Was it the fat director who stood me down? Or the one who is still fatter? You look the same to me.”
Himera and Neeg exchanged shocked looks with each other.
Grib breathed out long and slow, through his nose. “General, we’re calling to interview about a new position that has opened up. I believe my former colleague Andhlo spoke to you about it?”
“Was that why you slew him?” The barbarian demanded.
The stress sent coming from Neeg’s glands sharpened deeply, mixed with the slightly rotted smell of infection.
“Andhlo died of a drug overdose.” Grib growled.
“Yes, the needle forced into his neck was very large, I think.” The Kaleesh held his hands apart to demonstrate the size. “You do not speak to a child, you speak to Grievous. You will speak truth, or not speak. Andhlo was… honourable, for your kind. He worked for a kresh of liars and thieves. Now the King of Thieves offers me a great title.” He scoffed, and then turned back to his carving. “I wonder when will the Thief King try to dispose of me?”
“I’m the Viceroy of the Trade Federation.” Grib shouted, pounding his fist against the desk. “And I will not be spoken to like this by an alien barbarian!”
“Yes! Good!” Grievous let out a cackle. “Now you speak the truth.”
Grib launched himself to his feet, knocking his chair over backwards he stood up so fast. He knew he was being manipulated and provoked, but how dare this upjumped savage talk to him like this?! “You want me to treat you as you deserve to be treated? Fine. I was going to offer you a position worth so much it’ll pay back the entire debt of your worthless little mudball in a single campaign! I was going to offer you a command of a fleet of five thousand warships! You could have had more power than a mud soaked barbarian like you could have ever dreamed of, if you just showed me a fraction of the respect I deserve! Instead, you will die regretting that an entire generation of your people lived and died in poverty because of your unearned pride!”
Grievous’s cackle stopped, and the only sound for the next minute was the wood crackling in the firepit. The women in the background of the call had stopped speaking, disturbed by the sound of Grib’s rant. Finally, the Kaleesh primitive spoke in a low, soft tone. “You do not have five thousand ships. Inside the Corporate Sector, you have four thousand ships, but only enough fuel for, oh, two thousand.” He hummed. “Maybe another two hundred. Outside, you have five thousand ships, but half are crippled. Parts missing. Gas gone. Hoppers dry. Andhlo and I knew your fleets best, Thief King. I know your commanders, your captains, your admirals. None of them can win your war.”
The general leaned forward, and took up a stick with one hand, using it to turn the log in the fire. “Your enemy has been watching you. Planning. Dooku chose when to declare war. First strike crippled you. Second strike destroyed your confidence. You no longer threaten his castle. He threatens yours. You are like a wounded beast that he stalks, waiting for a chance to lay the finishing blow. One more mistake, Grib. One more mistake, and your Thief Kingdom will burn.” It was then that he raised up the block of wood that he’d been carving, and held it up for the holocom to see.
At first it looked like nothing but a simple wooden ball, but then Grib recognised it was a planet. He didn’t know which one, though it looked vaguely familiar. What he had thought were merely embers in the fire were the smouldering remains of other such effigies.
“Your enemy… very ruthless. Determined. Clever. Prepared.” Grievous let out a soft cackle. “He doesn’t even hate you. He doesn’t think of your suffering, to cause it or to avoid it. He simply wishes to destroy you. To be defeated by such an enemy… terrible. Terrible.”
“...Can you win the war?” Grib demanded.
“Yes.” Grievous answered with complete confidence. He looked up at the holocom, but made no attempt to elaborate further.
Grib glanced over at the other board members. They all gave nods, looking thoroughly impressed. The truth was that Grib already hated the damned alien, and he knew that trying to control him was a doomed endeavor. The thing was, he didn’t need a general who responded perfectly to commands, what he needed was Raxus and Botajef burned to the ground. Whatever threat Grievous would pose down the line was a threat he would have to deal with when the time came.
“General, we’re prepared to offer you the position.”
“I refuse.”
“Oh, get blasted!” Grib snarled. “Why not?!”
“We haven’t discussed my payment.” Grievous replied.
“I promise you, you will receive so many credits your stupid little cesspit will be struggling with inflation, instead of debt.”
“Yes, of course.” Grievous said. “But the treasure is not enough.”
“What do you want?” Grib groaned out, exasperated.
“To exterminate the huks.”
“The who?”
“Your kind call them Yam’rii.” Grievous looked directly up at Grib’s projected face, his eyes gleaming with the rising fire of the burning orb. “I want them all dead. Every adult. Every child. Every sample of their DNA in a sperm bank or egg creche. Every city razed. Every last bunker dug up. No brick laid by the Huks will ever rest upon another again.”
The other board members looked at each other when they heard the demand. A clear declaration of genocidal intentions, demanded as a price for mercenary services. Force help them, this primitive really was an absolute madman.
Grib sat there, seething. “...Fine. but you’ll have to hunt down the other Yam’rii, scattered across the Galaxy down yourself.”
“Grib?” Neegs cautioned, looking nervous. “Remember that somebody may one day end up listening to this call. We can’t agree to this, not if it ends up in a court room.”
“Shut up.”
“But this is gen-”
“Shuuuut uuup!” Grib howled at him, the exhalation so intense it flung spittle from his throat. “You worthless fat old man! Just be quiet! Just close your gaping mouth! That’s all you need to do! Just sit there, and let me fix this mess, or take your reeking flesh and go! Get out! Maybe then you can die of an excess of pus in your disgusting glands and I’ll never have to smell your rotten stink again!”
Neeg sat in his chair, unmoving. He glanced between Grib and the holocom, before finally he settled back, swallowing. “We need to make sure this call is not recorded.”
Chest heaving, Grib turned back to the holocom, and swallowed down a mouthful of foaming spittle. “You hear that, savage? The Yam’rii homeworld, their colonies, their homesystem, that will be yours to do as you please, with. But the rest? That will be up to you.”
“...Deal.” Grievous finally answered.
“You understand that we can’t keep an agreement like this in writing?” Neegs added.
“Pah.” Grievous dismissed. “I will control your armies. If you try to betray me, I will raze the Corporate Sector myself.”
Grib’s eye twitched. “So be it.” Then he hung up.
As the fire and the demon disappeared back into the holocom they were summoned from, Grib suddenly felt a strange sense of exhaustion overcome him. He looked at the rest of the directors, to find them staring at him, stunned.
It was Vinwe who broke the silence. “What have we agreed to?”
Rather than answer, Grib left the room, glad to be away from the smell of their pathetic cowardice. Whatever Grievous’s petty grudges, in the end Grib had no real choice. He wasn’t stupid enough to believe his Master would tolerate failure. Whatever became of the Trade Federation, or the Alliance, or the blasted huk, Grib wouldn’t be around to see any of it he didn’t get results.
Now wasn’t the time to be having second thoughts. Now was the time to double down. What choice was even left anymore but to win or die?
Comments
CMDR Dantae
Thanks for the chapter! Keep up the good work.
Captain Fatfoot
I don’t know enough about pre-cyborg grievous to say whether your depiction is accurate, but I am very much enjoying it.
